


Whiskey Eyes

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Romance, Trust Issues, Underage Drinking, but they might just work through them, just a whole lot of issues, mentions of Derek/Jennifer, mentions of Derek/Kate, post 3b, underage issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1607870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"God, I wish you could get drunk."<br/>"...So do I."<br/>--<br/>The past few months have been hell, and Stiles wants something to take the edge off. Derek has deeper issues than either of them realize, and they'll have to work through them if they want to end up together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Eyes

Derek’s brows arch as Stiles sidles past him through the half open door, crossing the room and flopping onto the couch. A six-pack of beer is in one hand, bottle of whiskey in the other. 

A few pointed remarks form and fall away in Derek’s mind, everything from “and you’re here because?” to the classically sarcastic “sure, make yourself at home.” 

His loft isn’t exactly a haven for the pack or a site for social gatherings – unsolicited Halloween raves aside, the open space is usually home to himself and occasionally Peter, and the even more occasional in-crisis guest. He’s never made any attempt to transform the bare space into an area the pack feels comfortable strolling into without permission, and the results have more or less lived up to his expectations.

Then again, Stiles is Stiles.  Somehow, most of Derek’s rules seem to go out the window when he’s involved.

Most everyone’s rules, really.  Derek eyes the liquor.

“And what do you think you’re doing with that?”

Stiles shoots him one of those looks that says he’s a total idiot, drops the beer to the floor and goes straight for the whiskey.

“What, like I’m gonna get drunk at _my_ house?  Where my dad, the Sheriff, lives?  ‘Cause that’ll go over well.”

Derek doesn’t ask why Stiles has decided to get drunk tonight. That would be like asking why Scott’s taken to punching through cement walls in abandoned buildings downtown, why Lydia’s gone through five new guys in the past three weeks, why Derek’s seriously considering investing in a TV so he’ll have some noise to drown out his own too-loud thoughts late at night.

The past few months have been hell on all of them.

And all in all, it’s better that the kid get wasted here than out in the preserve or in his Jeep or anywhere he could pass out alone and freeze to death. Derek has enough on his conscience. So he just sighs when Stiles downs his first mouthful and grimaces, slides the door shut, and goes back to his book.

.-

Stiles is halfway through the bottle when his hand comes down on Derek’s thigh – a little heavy, clumsy, insistent.

“Derek, drink with me.”

His eyes flick up.  Stiles’ are foggy but earnest as he offers out the bottle with his free hand, the hand not currently tracing aimless patterns down Derek’s leg.

Acknowledging the hand would only lead to awkwardness.  Derek scowls at the bitter scent in the air and looks back to his book.

“Would be a waste.  I can’t get drunk.”

“Right.” The arm drops, whiskey splashing up onto Stiles’ chest, onto the leather sofa.  The room’s going to smell sharp with it for days. “That _sucks_ for you, dude.”

Derek’s shoulders twitch, eyes rolling.  He’s never known anything different. 

He remembers being back in high school, scoffing at the way his classmates would lose control of themselves at parties. Remembers taking six shots in a row to win a bet, making baskets in the driveway afterward and smirking as his friends marveled, as they tripped over their own feet after only two.

He remembers breaking into a liquor cabinet after the fire – he can’t recall whose, it doesn’t matter – and downing two bottles of tequila hoping for a buzz, hoping for anything to help him stop thinking for a while. Laura had found him on the floor in their motel room, halfway through a third and still feeling nothing.

Still feeling everything.

He hasn’t bothered drinking since.

“So what do you do?” Stiles asks, dabbing at the wet section of shirt with a dry part, just spreading out the damage.  His words are barely slurring, and Derek wonders if the drink is still on its way to hitting him hard or if he’s developed some level of tolerance.

He doesn’t love the idea of Stiles drinking enough to develop a tolerance.

Then again, Stiles doesn’t seem to notice his hand still on Derek’s leg, fingers kneading into the hard muscle of his thigh, and his eyes are blinking heavily as he looks up to stare out the night-darkened window. Derek flips another page because it feels like about time.

“What do I do for what?”

A half-focused gaze wobbles over to land on him.  Stiles takes another swig, still grimacing when the bitter liquid hits his tongue.

“Take the edge off.”  He says it slowly, mouth wrapping around each word like he wants to make sure he gets it right, like it _matters._   He leans forward, and the bottle drops to the floor next to the untouched beer.  “Stay sane. Our lives fucking suck, and you’re... not totally crazy, y’know?  You can’t get drunk, don’t date.”  He pauses, head bobbing as he swallows.  “You don’t date, do you?”

_Not since your English teacher turned out to be a serial killer, Stiles._

Derek lets out a slow breath, forcing the familiar surge of bitterness down. It’s not a sharp pain anymore, not the way it had been at first.  After Jennifer ( _Julia_ ), the shame and betrayal had been overwhelming. He’d wanted to bare his claws and tear at his own flesh, wanted to feel _anything_ past the sick ache in his gut – loss and not loss and _you didn’t actually think it was real this time, did you_?  To lash out and shut down and just run away from everyone who’d seen this latest example of exactly how gullible he is.

He’s past raging now.  These days it all just feels dull, inevitable.

“No, I don’t date.”

The dizzy grin that breaks over Stiles’ face really should be a warning sign. Hell, this whole evening should be a warning sign.  Derek looks back to his book.

“So... what d’you do?”

The words are a hopeless tangle on the page.  He squeezes his eyes shut.

What is Derek supposed to say? That he’s barely holding it together? That Kate coming back had nearly been the last straw?  That he’s so glad not to be alone with the deafening silence that he’s letting a teenager get drunk in front of him and run a hand up his leg?

…And it feels _good_?

This is exactly why you don’t let people get drunk around you.  Stupid, pointless questions you have no hope of answering, that won’t do anyone any good to wonder about.  He’s not sixteen anymore; it’s not funny or liberating.  Like so much in his life these days, it just makes him goddamn tired.

When he blinks his eyes open again, Stiles is still looking at him expectantly.  He rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know, Stiles. I work out.”

“Yeah you do.” Stiles seems to catch himself after he says it, but his eyes go hot even as his ears burn red, the hand on Derek’s leg clenching significantly.

Derek doesn’t react. He very carefully doesn’t react as the fingers spread, long and hot with drink and intention, raking out toward his inner thigh.  Doesn’t move, doesn’t let his jaw jump, keeps his breathing steady.  And if his pulse stutters… well, there are advantages to being alone with a human.

Stiles’ eyes are like his whiskey as they scan over Derek – golden-brown and hazy and _intoxicating_. Sometimes Derek thinks attraction is the closest he can get to being drunk; that heady rush of impulses you don’t want to control, the desire to think and say and do something unbelievably stupid, to grab hold of something you know better than to get near but you still want anyway.

Despite his best efforts, Stiles must see something in his eyes. His lips curve and his body shifts, knees tilting toward Derek, the space between them closing.

Not reacting isn’t going to work anymore.  Derek needs to do something.  He needs to have done something three minutes ago.  Should’ve done something the second the boy walked in, drinks in hand.

He clears his throat, chest taut, lungs tight with tension.

“Stiles…”

“Shh, s’ok…” The hand finally falls away from his thigh, but that’s only because it’s bracing on Derek’s waist instead, because Stiles is sliding a clumsy leg over his hips to straddle him. “Just taking the edge off.”

He’s higher than Derek now; Derek has to tilt his head back to look at him.  And there’s a long expanse of neck _right there_ , pale skin a little flushed, a constellation of tiny moles dotting the flesh, just waiting for someone to chart them. Derek’s fingers feel restless, his lips tingling faintly.  He drags his gaze away.

“You have your drink for that.”

Stiles shifts and resettles over him, an edgy friction that’s anything but comfortable.

“Doesn’t help you though.” Hands smooth, heavy and dragging, up his sides. “And this is better ‘cause… less liver disease, right?  Less brain-numbing hangovers.  Prolly gonna get a brain-numbing hangover anyway but this’ll totally, definitely… god, _definitely_ make up for it. I feel like… I’ve wanted… It’ll be so fucking good, Derek.”  Wet, whiskey-soaked lips press fast and clumsy into the corner on his mouth, there and gone too fast to flinch away… or reciprocate.

“Derek…” the name rolls out again, low and longing, like its been bottled away for too long, like he’s been aching to say it.  Derek feels his teeth clenching against a similar sound and Stiles grins, fingers tracing his tight jaw. “And... you know there’ve been studies. A healthy sex life’s scientifically proven to improve heart function, and reduce…” he pauses, scrunching up his face as whatever he’s planned to say escapes him.  “…y’know, bad things.  Like, all kinds of bad things you don’t want.  So see?  That’s like five awesome reasons to do this right there, and you can’t even argue ‘cause I got _science_.”

It’s so Stiles, even around the slurs and the slightly skewed numbering. If it hadn’t been, if he’d been slow or quiet or seductive, it would’ve been so much easier to shrug this off.

But Stiles’ heart is thudding fast, beats reverberating through the space between them and knocking the air straight out of Derek’s lungs.  And he’s dragging the book from Derek’s hands, laying it with careful concentration over the back of the couch so Derek doesn’t lose his page.  Like it even matters.  Like he even remembers what he’d been reading.

He’s not sure what to do with his hands now that the book is gone, though.  Now that Stiles is in front of him, all around him.  They itch to settle on something, on his legs, his hips.

(They should push Stiles away. They absolutely should.)

They end up hovering awkwardly a few inches from Stiles’ sides, fingers tense without clenching, hypersensitive to the air and the way they brush against each other. Aching to feel something, anything besides his own skin.

“Stiles, stop,” he says finally, because it’s what he always says when the kid pushes things too far, because he’s supposed to.  (Because he _is_ just a kid.   _Seventeen_ , and he can’t…)  Stiles’ hands are at his nape now, long fingers scraping gently across his neck, palms cupping his cheeks.  The heat draped across his legs, radiating onto his chest, feels wild and dangerous and desperately soothing.  Like it could drive him insane if he let it, like it could sate and settle parts of him he hadn’t even known were aching.

Brown eyes narrow hazily: a hint of nerves past the whiskey-fueled confidence.

“Do you mean that?”

…Mean what, again?

_Yes. You’re supposed to say yes._

Derek drags in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring.  _Yes, obviously_ and _god no_ and _don’t make me say it_ because if he has to say it…

A wordless sound drags out of him, low and sharp and needy… and when had the evening turned into this? When had he started to need this so goddamn badly?

The last six months have been hell. The last _year_ has been hell.

Fuck… the better half of the last decade.

He needs to take the goddamn edge off.

His shoulders roll, fast and restless, blades digging hard into the couch – and it’s friction, yes, but it’s the wrong kind of friction.  The tension’s so much he can’t stay still… but he can’t let his hips roll either, can’t surrender to that because it’s _Stiles_ and he’s Derek and they _can’t._

He’s not drunk, and he’s better than that.  Damn it, he’s better than—

A hot mouth kisses clumsily along the shell of his ear, and his breath rattles out loud and violent in the quiet room.  His neck rolls, eyes squeezing shut, and Stiles is mouthing down his neck, teeth scraping.  A hand is clenched in his hair, the other gripping his shirt and dragging at it. Up and then down, forward, stitches straining.  No intent behind the motions, just desperation, just need.  Need to hold and pin and feel and be close.  Stiles needs this.

 _Derek_ needs this.  Part of him has been waiting for this since Stiles walked in.

(Even though they can’t… _he can’t_. He has to…)

His hands have finally made their move, skimming up Stiles’ sides, soaking up the muscle definition that loose t-shirts and flannel do nothing to show off. Hours of sports practice and fighting for his life have finally left their mark.  He’s not a wolf; he doesn’t have the effortless physique granted by a supernatural birth or the bite.  Nothing about Stiles is effortless, nothing is easy.  He’s so much _more_ than that.

Stiles is making noises – long, low, spine-quivering noises… and Derek’s letting this go on too long, letting those hips roll against his too urgently, letting that mouth drag too far along his jaw toward his mouth.

He has no excuse.  He’s stronger, older, _sober._

There’s no excuse except for the way everything inside him lurches in protest when he thinks about pulling away.

_Just another second._

Then the mouth’s on his and he can’t kiss back but he can’t _not_ kiss back, and that ends up being the breaking point. His head ducks, hands sliding to Stiles’ shoulders and pushing him firmly away.  He hates the small sound of protest that escapes the boy’s mouth ( _he’s just a boy, still just a goddamn boy, whatever his body feels like), and_ fights down the whine that tries to claw up his own throat in response.

Stiles’ hands move to brace themselves against Derek’s forearms. His eyes flutter open, hazy and indignant.

“What the hell, Derek?”

His tongue goes to lick his whiskey-and-kiss soaked lips, and how can Derek not watch?  Not imagine trailing his own tongue after?  The lips twitch and Derek winces, drags his gaze upward.

“We need to stop.”

Brows crease, fond and scolding.

“You need to stop stopping.”

His body shudders its agreement, hips fighting the urge to roll as Stiles writhes restlessly in his lap.  It’s been so damn long since he’s been touched, since he’s felt the solid, grounding comfort of another person pressed against him.

(And it’d been wrong.  _Every single time_ it’d been wrong.  A lie, a mistake.  He never thinks these things through and he always makes the wrong choice. If he makes the wrong choice with Stiles… If he loses whatever he’s built with him, with his pack, because of one drunken urge and his own lonely desperation…)

The scent of whiskey and Stiles and lust is its own drug, and everything inside of him wants to fall into it, wants to loosen his grip, let Stiles slip free and kiss him one more time.  He could.  He could, so goddamn easily.  They could fall into it just like they’d fallen this far, like it’s natural, like their bodies are built for it.

But...

“We can't."  He breathes, sharp.  "And you’re drunk.”

Like he needs to remind himself.  Like it’s not obvious from the haze in Stiles’ eyes.  From the fact that this is happening at all.

Stiles groans, those soft eyes sliding shut.  His body wobbles, a slow, rolling wave, and when his forehead starts to fall forward Derek can’t help leaning in until they touch. Steadying him, keeping him afloat while the world rocks around him.

Stiles’ breaths shudder out.  Derek’s are steady, even.

He counts the seconds between in and out.

Whiskey eyes drift back open.

“Not… I’m not doing this ‘cause I’m drunk. Der… I…” He smiles, dizzy and bright. A finger runs restlessly down Derek’s jaw. “K, maybe I’m brave enough to do this ‘cause I’m drunk. Which is probably the best argument for drinking like ever.  Liquid courage, right?”

His mouth dips, and Derek’s lost in the movement until it’s almost too late. At the last second he turns his head, and Stiles’ lips graze his jaw instead.  That isn’t much better, and he’s fighting a whimper when he pushes back again, bracing Stiles’ shoulders and leaning hard into the couch.

“If you weren’t drunk you’d know why we can’t do this.”

“I know why,” Stiles groans, startling Derek.  The hand tracing his jaw slides back to his nape, clutching his hair and tugging his head until their eyes meet, sure and serious. “Penal code 261.5, and I don’t care. I so beyond fucking don’t care, Derek. I mean, we… we’ve _killed_ people, ok? And destroyed public property, and lied to the feds.  And…” He laughs, sharp and bitter, an angry bark of sound that shakes his body and leaves Derek’s soul bruising before he even goes on. “…And been _possessed_ and killed _more_ people and been through more shit than most people do by the time they’re sixty. So I’m finding it really hard to give a damn that I’m about five months short of the California age of consent, ok? I consent.  I _so_ fucking consent, Derek. And you can have it in writing and frame it or… not frame it ‘cause evidence still probably isn’t the best idea but I’m serious about this, is what I’m saying. So just… kiss me, ok?”

It’s enough to make Derek’s hands clench on his shoulders, to make his hips shift, his breath catch and his head dip in one desperate inch. If anything was going to make him give in, if would’ve been that.

He wishes he were weaker.  Braver.

“I can’t.”

He pushes Stiles firmly to the right, rolling him back onto the cool leather.  It would feel so natural just to roll with him, to press him down and claim his pale skin. To kiss and suck, bite and mark. To let go for a few seconds, minutes. Hours.  One reckless, thoughtless night.  It’d be so easy.

_He can’t._

He lets go and pushes back, scrambling to his feet. He needs to be away, needs space. Air.  His breaths are nowhere near even now and his legs feel weak under him. A hand goes out to the nearest beam to steady himself.

Falling apart… and he doesn’t even care that it’s showing. He’s not even sure _why_.

( _You were seventeen, once_.)

He shudders, brain dancing and darting and rejecting the thought before it can go any further. His head drops against the narrow pillar, shoulders tight with tension.  For a second all he can hear are his own breaths until…

“God, I wish you could get drunk.”

Claws dig into the beam.  He forces them to retract, pushes away as he turns to meet the boy’s eyes.  They're frustrated, longing, confused.  Everything he feels echoed in whiskey eyes.  Everything but the sheer, blinding panic.

Derek's voice is raw and rough as he breathes: “So do I.”

Stiles’ eyes slide slowly down his chest, and he finds himself wishing he’d stayed backed against the beam.  He focuses everything he has on remaining still and steady, and it’s nearly enough to distract him from the heat in those eyes.  From the way Stiles’ neck transforms into a long, moonlit strip as he drops his head back against the couch, groaning.

“You can’t do that, Derek.  Can’t just say things like that.”

He knows.

“I know.”

But that doesn’t make it less true.

He can _smell_ the lust coming off Stiles, smell it on himself.  Can smell the whiskey in the air, mingling with his breath even from here, and maybe it is affecting Derek after all.  Because if he keeps looking at Stiles, keeps seeing that want in his eyes, his parted lips and arching neck…

Panic floods over him again.

“I was seventeen, Stiles.  I thought I knew what I wanted.”

The words tumble out before even he grasps their meaning. He’s been feeling them claw up inside him and he knows they’re _right_ , that they’re important, that they matter beyond any abstract restrictions or human laws, or what either of them think they’re feeling right now. But it isn’t until a pained understanding filters into Stiles’ eyes that Derek realizes what he’s saying.

“Derek… you’re not Kate.”

( _You were seventeen.)_

The phantom scent of burning drowns out everything.  He stumbles.

( _You were seventeen and you thought you were in love. And what happened?)_

He’s against the beam again and doesn’t remember moving. Back digging into it, legs sliding out from under him. Stiles has pushed himself to his feet, eyes remarkably steady as he trips across the floor and grips Derek’s arms.

The world stops wavering.  Whiskey and Stiles flood his senses again, the burning echo fading as Stiles holds him steady.

“You’re _not_ _Kate_.”

“I’m...” Kate had swept into his life, older and dangerous and everything he’d thought he ever wanted.  And she’d torn his world apart.  He’d been seventeen.

He’s not Kate.

“I’m _not_ … I can’t. I…”

“Derek.” A cool hand touches his cheek and his words peter out, and there’s only the deafening silence and his own shuddering breaths and Stiles’ eyes anchoring him.  “Derek, I’m not Kate either.”

He knows.

“…I know.”

But he breathes easier, somehow, once he’s heard it.

Stiles rakes a hand through his hair, shakes his head fast and sharp like it’ll shock the whiskey haze from his mind.

“I’m an idiot,” he murmurs, and the hand goes back to brace Derek’s arm. To rub along it soothingly, like he’s a kid or a pet.  He’ll never admit how much it actually helps.  “I thought... You’re always so _together_ , y’know?”

He doesn’t know.  He’s focused on Stiles’ hand, on his own breathing.  He’s back to counting – four in and four out.  He hasn’t felt this exposed in front of someone since Laura. He hasn’t let anyone see him this desperate.

He's usually lashed out by now, or run.

Stiles’ eyes are all he sees, inches away and so honest.

“Derek, listen to me.  I... fuck... I don’t just want the edge off.  I've wanted more than that for a while. We both have... I mean... Am I wrong?”

He’s not.

_He can’t._

“Stiles, I—”

“I’m gonna wake up tomorrow, hung over and hating myself, and I’m gonna want this.”

He wants it too.  He always wants it, down in that locked away vault of things he won’t acknowledge. How long has it been there, lurking under the surface?

He wishes he were braver, stronger.

“I’m not—”

“And I’m going to want this in a week, Derek, and a month. Every time I see you and every time I don’t and every time we pull each others’ asses out of whatever crap’s coming our way next.  I wanted this when I was sixteen and I’m gonna want it when I turn eighteen.  And nineteen, and twenty-three.”

Derek’s throat is thick with emotion and unspoken agreement. And denial, doubt, hope… How is Stiles so damn eloquent halfway through a bottle of Jack, and Derek can’t find a single fucking word?

Stiles breathes in, slow and shaking, his gaze moving away.

“And…ok, so that’s just me getting that out there.  And that’s not… me trapping you into anything. Not gonna 'die without you' or some shit. I’m just saying… if you want… _fuck_."  He pauses to gather himself.  "Just, there’s no need to rush, ok?  It’s not a now or never deal.  I mean, I want you now, I always want you _right now_ but if you want... we don’t have t—”

Stiles' lips are rough from the winter air and too much nervous licking.  They taste like whiskey.  His words cut into a groan that shudders through him and into Derek… and their lips are barely brushing, chaste and close-lipped, and Derek’s heart’s already pounding.

Derek thinks distantly that whiskey might be his new favorite drink.  He’ll run to the liquor store tomorrow; he’ll leave bottles sitting open around the loft like air freshener if it can manage to recapture even a hint of this moment.

He pulls back and Stiles’ eyes flutter open.  They’re a different kind of hazy now, warmer and less dizzy.

“Damn, I’ve gotta ramble more often.”

Derek’s tongue darts to his lips and away.  He can taste Stiles through the whiskey.  He wants to taste him again.

It’s terrifying.

“I’m a mess,” he breathes.  He’s not sure which of them he’s talking to.  If it matters.

Stiles leans in slow and kisses him lightly.  It takes everything in Derek not to flinch in or away. It’s over in a second and it’s too slow and too fast.  He’s shaking when Stiles pulls back.

“I love messy.”

Can something be too much and not nearly enough at the same time?

“I’m not good at this.”

Stiles grins.

“I’m probably worse.”

“You’re _seventeen_.”

And Stiles’ eyes flinch.  It matters more than it ever should, because everything Stiles said is true, because he’s _years_ older than Derek was when he was seventeen.  But the number still trips Derek up, still chokes at him, strangles him, paralyzes him in a way he can't fight around or escape.  And it’s the one thing they can’t change.

Stiles swallows, lips parting.

“Then we’ll wait.”

 _…two, three, four…_ He forces himself to breathe.

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re making excuses.”

He is.  He’s cobbling together every out he can think of.

“You'll wait.  For five months?”

“I can count, thank you.”

He grits his teeth.

“I…” Stiles’ brows arch up knowingly, and he finds himself scowling. “ _Fine._ ” The snarl in his tone has no impact. The boy beams. “But no strings, Stiles. You look at other people, you date, you enjoy your life and… you decide you don’t want this, that’s a _good thing_. I’ll be happy for you. Ok?”

Now Stiles looks tense.  Looks like he’ll argue.  He presses his lips together, and Derek’s eyes flash.

“Fine,” Stiles echoes, less than thrilled. “I’ll go 'experience life,' make an idiot of myself playing the field, ok?  But you’re not using five months to shut down, play martyr. You need me, I’m there. Hell, I’ll be there anyway. And you’re gonna let me.”

It feels like it goes against the point, like they should be distancing themselves.  Like he should be running as fast and far as he can again.  ...For Stiles’ sake.

The idiot would probably just chase him.

He nods, lips thinning.

“Ground rules then.  No kissing.”

Of course Stiles’ eyes fall to his lips the second he says it, and he can barely fight the impulse to lean in.  Each of their kisses, brief as they'd been, are seared into him.  If they keep it up, there’s no way he'll last five months.  It’ll burn bright and fall apart in the worst way, and they can’t…  He  _can't._

“On the mouth?”

The question jolts Derek and he shivers, watching Stiles’ lips twitch, teasing.  When had his eyes gone to Stiles’ mouth?  He scowls again.

“ _Anywhere."_

Stiles’ tongue drags across his lips, and the things it does to Derek almost make him forget the writhing panic and kiss him anyway. Can they make “no more licking your lips” a ground rule?  His forces his gaze back up.

“Ok,” Stiles breathes.  “But I’m hugging you.”

It’s enough to force thoughts of mouths and tongues and kissing away.

“I don’t hug.”

“Well, you’re gonna learn to.  I’m a hugging _beast_ , ok? You’re gonna crave my hugs. You’re gonna lie awake at night aching for my hugs.”

And to prove his point, Stiles presses in close, arms wrapping around Derek’s waist and shoulder, hands dragging up his back and smoothing down his spine. It feels strange and intimate in a way the kisses hadn’t, foreign and familiar and loving and _home._

“How’s that, big guy?”

Derek realizes he’s completely relaxed into the embrace. As soon as he notices, his body tenses again. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t want to.

“I… could get used to it.”

“You better.”

It’s ridiculous.  _Hugging_ , really?  He should absolutely pull away.  Instead, he slides awkward hands to rest on Stiles’ hips, drops his head to burrow against a long, pale, warm neck, and breathes in deep.  Stiles sighs against him.

“And I’m sleeping over tonight, k? ‘Cause I’m a responsible adult who makes responsible decisions and am way, way, _way_ too gone to drive. And ‘cause I’m one hundred and seventy percent sure you’re gonna try and wiggle out of this when I’m sober, like the glutton for punishment you so obviously are.”

Stiles' heart is beating evenly.  Derek counts off his breathing against the steady beats.

“Gonna say the same thing, y’know,” Stiles adds. “Blush more, maybe. Slur less.  But the same.”

Derek smirks against Stiles’ shoulder.  A hand smoothes slowly back up his spine, and he fights a shiver.

“You just wanna hear me say it again, don’t you?”  Stiles leans close to Derek’s ear, pointedly not letting his lips brush.  “I’m gonna date the hell out of you, Derek Hale.”

He loses track of his breaths.

“In five months.”

The lips still don't touch him, but he can feel the smile in the air.

“In five months,” Stiles grants, letting out a light, whiskey laugh. “Now let me pass out in your bed, k?”

.-

Stiles claims the room's spinning away from him when he lies down, so Derek curls against him and anchors him until he falls asleep.  Until he starts to writhe and shudder in the midst of a nightmare, until the tears start to fall.  Until he wakes up sobbing the names of the Nogitsune's victims against Derek's chest.

"I'm a mess," he mutters, wiping his eyes unabashedly against Derek's shirt.  And somehow, Derek finds his arms wrapping around him.

"I love messy."

They fall asleep tangled together.

And when Stiles wakes up he clutches his head, and hates himself, and blushes.  And says the same thing.

.-

The months test them, and they both need the time.  Stiles drags himself out into the world and dates listlessly, then dates more seriously, and has his heart broken in the casual human way that no one can be killed over (and it hurts just as badly).  Derek nearly dies twice, and realizes with a surety that surprises him exactly how much he doesn't want to.  He keeps whiskey in the loft, and drinks it sometimes, and smiles.  And he lets Stiles get his heart broken and doesn't kill anyone over it, no matter how much the wolf and the man inside of him both want to.

They spend time together and time apart, and hug each other gently and fiercely and so often that the rest of the group doesn't even bother raising their brows anymore when it happens.  They gather themselves, and grow, and remember who they are.

And Derek isn't Kate.  And Stiles isn't the Nogitsune.

And five days before Stiles' eighteenth birthday, Derek leans in and kisses him.  It's just Stiles and Derek, and no whiskey between them.  When he pulls back, Stiles' eyes are still hazy.

"Jumping the gun a little, aren't you?"

Derek shrugs, his heartbeat steady.  He doesn't count between breaths.

"An age or date doesn't make this thing real.  It's real when we're ready for it.  I am, if you are."

Stiles swallows, a hand trailing up the front of Derk's shirt.

"I'm not any good this."

Derek smiles faintly.

"I'm worse."

"You're definitely worse." Stiles grins, whiskey eyes crinkling.  "Kiss me again."

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this was: Sterek; "I wish you could get drunk." "So do I."  
> And this is what happened.
> 
> California Penal Code section 261.5 - sex with a minor.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
